I.G. FREDERICK

The Tell-Trump Heart

The Tell-Trump Heart

True! -- nervous -- very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will many, many people say that I am crazy? The presidency had sharpened my senses -- not destroyed -- not dulled them. Above all was the sense of memes acute. I heard all conspiracy theories in the Info Wars and in the Fox News. I heard many, many things in Russia. How, then, am I mad? I'm honored to have the greatest temperament that anybody has. Believe me! See how stable I can tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea to run for President entered my brain; maybe because my friend Putin said it, maybe not, I forget. But once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object for the responsibility there was none. Passion for doing the job there was none. I loved the old man Uncle Sam. He had never wronged me, always looked the other way every April 15th. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire, well maybe I did. I think it was his gaze! yes, it was this! He had the eye of a reporter -- a sharp blue eye that could look right through me. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold and told my lawyers to hide my tax returns. I don't pay taxes. That makes me smart. And so by little steps, – tiny, tiny little steps, so tiny you'd never see them -- I made up my mind to take the life of the Uncle Sam, and thus rid myself of the fake news forever.

Now this is the point. People say I am mad. Madmen know nothing and I know many things. I know the best things. But you should have seen me. I was the best sneaker. You should have seen how sneaky I was -- with what unpresidented plans -- with what total focus I sent my staff to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I declared my candidacy. And every night, about midnight, I went to my smart phone and turned it on -- oh so gently logged into Twitter! And then, when I had opened a keyboard sufficient for my hands – such big hands, not tiny at all – and with my mind all closed, closed, that no light shone in, did I type out a Tweet. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I tweeted! I typed it slowly -- very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb him. It took me an hour to finish my tweets. Okay, more like three hours. Genius cannot be rushed. Ha! would a madman have been so covfefe as this? I wrote it good. They don’t write good. They have people over there, like Maggie Haberman and others, they don’t — they don’t write good. They don’t know how to write good. Not as good as me.

And then, when I was done, I closed the keyboard cautiously -- oh, so cautiously -- cautiously (for the hinges creaked) and this I did for seven long months -- every night just at midnight -- but I found the fake news always everywhere; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not old man Sam who vexed me, but the Evil Eye of his press. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the rallies, and spoke courageously about him, saying in a hearty tone how I was going to make him great again. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at three, I tweeted about him upon him while he slept.

Upon the eighth month, I was more than usually cautious in opening the keyboard. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers -- of my very best words. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. My numbers in the polls were up, my opponents were losers, Losers! To think they knew not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea; and opened the screen to see: "Russiagate"

My heart beat faster. But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. Meantime the hellish beep of every positive search for the word on the internet increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! -- do you mark me well I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that White House, these stories excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beeping grew louder, louder! And now a new anxiety seized me -- the old man would hear it! With a loud yell, I leaped into the Lincoln Bedroom. In my horror I found Sam in bed, reading from his smart phone a file called "Steele Dossier" No! Vladmir had told me, promised me those tapes were safe. This could not be!

In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. He struggled and cried out. I shouted words to cover his, "Build a Wall! Mexico is sending us rapists! Pizzagate! Grab them by the pussy! Repeal & Replace! If she wasn't my daughter, I'd be dating her!" His movements slowed, than stilled. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. Deader than dead. I make the best dead. The story would trouble me no more.

If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. I took up three planks from the flooring of the Oval Office, and I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye -- not even his -- could have detected any thing wrong.

I sat each day in the Office, smiling. I went about my days building hotels and signing things Steve gave me without reading them. Then entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as members of the press. Stories had been heard of meetings in the Mayflower hotel; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged with the FBI, and they had been deputed to speak of me of these things. I smiled, -- for what had I to fear? I was smarter than them -- so much smarter. I bade the gentlemen welcome. The news, I said, was fake news. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I invited my visitors into the Office. I bade them ask questions -- ask well. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the Old Man Sam.

The reporters were satisfied. My bumbling manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease, very much at ease. They asked questions, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of ice cream scoops and the size of my hands -- my big hands. But, ere long, I felt myself getting bored and wished them gone. My head ached from the questions they asked, all the words they used, and I fancied a beeping in my ears: but still they sat and still asked me about policies and programs and other nonsense. The beeping became more distinct: -- It continued and became more distinct: I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: spoke of birth certificates and Hillary's nastiness. Nasty woman! Those votes were illegally cast. But it continued and gained definiteness -- until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears. No doubt I now grew very pale; -- but I talked with a heightened voice of walls and how I saved coal jobs, yes coal is the future! Yet the sound increased -- and what could I do? It was a low, dull, beep -- much such a sound as a smart phone makes on low volume. I gasped for breath -- and yet the reporters heard it not. I talked more quickly -- more vehemently of trifles, of Rosie O’Donnell, of Muslim's dancing in the street on 9/11, of inauguration crowds, the Stock Market up -- oh so much up -- but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the tweets of other men -- but the noise steadily increased. I foamed -- I raved -- I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the beeps grew louder and faster. It grew louder -- louder -- louder! And still the men chatted about Fake News, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty Dollar! -- no, no! They heard! -- they suspected! -- they invoked Pinocchio! -- they were making a mockery of my horror! -- this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! and now -- again! -- hark! beep! beep! beep! beep!

"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed! -- tear up the planks! here, here! -- It is the beeping of the Russian Collusion!"